of sunlit days and burning embers
by icybluedepths
Summary: Celaena and Chaol spend the rest of their sunlit days and starry nights in a forest near an unknown village where no one can find them. / Or, in which the Captain of the Guard and the assassin run away to lead simple lives, in a simpler home, in an even simpler world. Oneshot.


Celaena and Chaol spend the rest of their sunlit days in a forest near an unknown village where no one can find them. / Or, in which the Captain of the Guard and the assassin run away to lead simple lives, in a simpler home, in an even simpler world.

 _i._

He steps into the little cottage they share, the one they had found, abandoned at the edge of the Adarlanian woods that shared a border with Terrasen. With the pile of freshly chopped firewood in his arms, he carefully places it into the old fireplace, a gentle movement so as to not wake her sleeping but three metres away. The summer days are fading quickly, the chillier autumn winds sweeping in. Winter would be coming soon, and in the depths of the dense forest they were living in, Chaol preferred to stay ready for the bitter cold.

But there are a few days left yet in the warm summer of this world, and Chaol sits down on the bed they share – _their_ bed, he can hardly believe it – and closes his eyes. He doesn't bother with taking off his muddy boots, choosing to tip his head back and enjoy the sunlight streaming through the window beside the bed. He watches the bare shoulder peeking out from under the white covers, the messy blonde hair spread on the two meagre pillows they share, the half of her face that is buried in the sheets. He will enjoy this peace.

The dappled shafts of light are pale golden in colour, and he studies them meticulously on the white sheets of the bed, tired from the early morning wood chopping he does so they can have warmth in the night. Out here, the day temperature is mildly warm in the summer but ice-cold in the night. He dreads to think of how low it will drop when they are in the depths of winter.

With a quiet creak of the old timber, Chaol stands up, removing his boots, and crawling back to his spot beneath the window, freezing when the bed shifts slightly, the mattress moving beneath his touch. She doesn't wake up.

It is only when he curls up next to her – when he puts his cheek onto the pillow and puts a chin on the top of her head, arm reaching across and pulling the sheet up to cover her exposed shoulder – that she wakes up.

She mumbles something unintelligible through the mess of hair that is covering her mouth, made even more muddled by sleep, and pushes closer. Then the assassin fully wakes up, opening her eyes to find the captain smiling down at her.

"You smell nice," she says, propping her head on one hand. Her blonde hair tumbles down, flows gently on the pillow like liquid gold. This is his favourite part of the day.

He wonders how it will be like – to wake up like this every morning and return to her side after his routine gathering, to go hunting with her in the afternoon, to have her leaning against his side while reading, to go to bed together at night –

He stops wondering because it is no longer a fantasy that cannot exist, no longer a desperate want for a rustic life in a small cottage to call home. They did it.

They have all the time in the world.

 _ii._

Sometimes, Dorian visits them.

He brings with him chocolates and beautiful dresses for Celaena, basketfuls of exotic fruit from the markets that they can access only once a month to avoid being seen – and, most importantly, stacks and stacks of thick tomes and light reads, enough to satisfy her insatiable reading appetite.

For Chaol he brings a weapon or two every time, usually simple ones for everyday use such as hunting. Once he'd brought an actual sword – one to replace the old one that hung on the wall, the one that belonged to the Captain of the Guard.

Chaol takes it thankfully, and tries not to feel guilty over a _sword_. He chides himself gently, ignoring the sinking feeling in his gut that he's betraying his old sword. _Stop it_ , he tells himself, _be thankful for the one that Dorian brought you_. And he is thankful, very much so, because the forges that craft the best swords – he can't help but feel a little greedy in this manner – will all recognize him, rumours will spread, and there goes this life they'd worked so hard for.

It still stings, though, just a blunt stick that sometimes pokes around at his heart, asking him: _Are you really giving everything up? Just for this boring life in the woods?_

And then Chaol realizes: this is everything he's ever wanted. Everything.

 _iii._

Sometimes she misses life in the glass palace. She misses the dances that they attended, seeing Dorian every day, eating the luxurious food they were served; the morning runs in the palace grounds –

No. What she has is better than that.

She has the midnight dances she and Chaol still share, she sees Dorian a handful of times every few months, and that only makes her treasure their friendship more. She has the charming little dinners Chaol makes when she comes home from the market to buy the food he gives her a list of (because they both know he wouldn't haggle at all and money that could be put to better use would be lost) and she has the quiet little trail they sometimes make use of in the morning, like their old routine.

Yes, she is happy. Happier than she has ever been.

Celaena ignores the quiet throbbing of guilt when she thinks of her people, abandoned.

She makes herself think that she, _Celaena_ , owes Terrasen no allegiance.

It takes a while – oh, only more than two years – but it works. She is much too content with this life here, alone with Chaol and sometimes Dorian.

It is more than she could ever ask for.


End file.
